


Silk and Steel

by katanashipping (stopbeingbored)



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types, Usagi Yojimbo
Genre: AU, Angst, Can be read as gen, Gen, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Prodigal son, Romance, katanashipping - Freeform, mention of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2481479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopbeingbored/pseuds/katanashipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between 2k3's SAMURAI TOURIST and PRODIGAL SON. Alternate storyline - UA.<br/>Leonardo is angry, but this time Usagi decides to step in and take the hit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk and Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting some of my stories from ff.net. As per usual, I am trying out different styles in different stories; this one is descriptive without dialogue. For all who don't know it, katanashipping is Leo/Usagi/Leo from the 2k3 Cartoon/UY Comic verse. So this fic is meant as romance, but I have been told it can also be read as gen/friendship, so really it's up to you.

 

 

> _There used to be a softness in Leonardo, Usagi thinks. He wonders where it has gone._

 

As Usagi watches Leonardo move in the half-light of the training area, he can't help but marvel how time flies.

Of course he notices that spring turns into summer, that the fiery leaves of autumn are, over time, inevitably covered by snow. Such is the cycle of seasons, and on the road it is an obvious marker for the passing of time. But there are other ways to tell, more subtle ways. His kimono is fraying at the knees and he has worn his way through another pair of sandals this winter, because nothing lasts forever. But whenever he visits this realm, this Third Earth, he can almost convince himself that time stood still while he was gone. The pipes in the kitchen still leak into an old tin can. The same pictures are pinned up on the refrigerator door. The same image, overly jolly and bright, grins at him from the lid of empty pizza boxes. And the much-abused punching bag, always in need of another stitch, still occupies its assigned spot beneath the staircase.

Yes, whenever he needs a rest from his travels, from the changes and the wear, he comes here and allows himself to get lost in the illusion of consistency.

This time, though, there is something in the way Leonardo moves that raises the hairs at the back of Usagi's neck. And that feels new, but it _looks_ old, like it already had plenty of time to settle.

Usagi doesn't like it.

 

> _He feels like he should have seen something. Seen it coming, at least. Had he only watched a little more closely, listened more tentatively, he might have been able to prevent what is happening now._

 

Usagi still remembers the first time they did battle with each other. Frankly, he doesn't think he will ever be able to forget. Rarely has he felt such exhilaration as when steel first rang against steel, when their swords first danced through the air in tune to their heartbeats. Back then he used to be amazed by the talent he witnessed, by the display of such skill at such a tender age. There was so much promise in this young ninja that he soon got to call his friend, and he couldn't wait to see what would become of it.

Looking back now, he has to admit that he also felt relief. Because Leonardo had been good, very good indeed, and already developing his own unique style with the double katana that would make beating him all but impossible should he manage to perfect it. But for the time being, Usagi was better. His own skills were backed up by the experience of many years. Had fate - and a particularly cunning fiend - not interrupted their match so harshly, the samurai would have won. And Leonardo knew it, too.

 

> _(Back then, the grin on Leonardo's face had found a match only in Usagi's own. His heart still flutters a bit when he thinks about it.)_

 

It was mere months later that Leonardo stumbled into Usagi's world, but by then the samurai could already detect a tendency that might have worried him in a lesser warrior than his friend. Leonardo had worn thinner in the time that they had been apart. Already he was trying to meet too many ends at once. He was still a student of the sword himself, and yet he felt the need to be a teacher as well, to represent the flawless example of a leader at all times.

During their short time together, Usagi noticed that Leonardo would usually go to bed last, even in the face of oncoming danger, and rise again with the morning sun. His eyes looked bruised if alert and he appeared tense. But while the samurai desired little more than to offer comfort and safety to his young friend, he found himself unable to work out where to start.

Eventually he pushed his musings aside to make room for battle plans and strategies and tried not to worry so much. Leonardo didn't smile anymore when he fought, but Usagi determinedly wrote it off to the circumstances, to the concern about his friend's family and the nature of their opponents. In short, he opted to delude himself, and before anything more could be done they parted ways again.

These days, there is a glint in Leonardo's eyes that Usagi does not like at all. His sensei Katsuichi used to say that the sharpest blade of all the lands is useless in untrained hands; but as he watches the grim determination in his friend's movements, Usagi can't help but wonder what they say about _overtrained_ hands.

Sometimes, Leonardo smiles, now. But his eyes no longer look like the eyes of someone who is smiling.

 

> _He knows he has to do something, but he can't figure out what it is._

 

There used to be a softness in Leonardo, Usagi thinks. He is sure of it. He remembers a smile so brilliant that it blotted out the sun. He remembers hesitation in a voice not used to talking to strangers. He remembers tentative fingers around his wrist, pulling him upright when he stumbled in the dark.

He remembers laughter that was so soft it might have been a breath.

Those were traits that the samurai used to admire in his young friend, for they meant that despite all of life's hardships and trials Leonardo had retained his beliefs, his ideals and values. It meant that after all he has gone through - and there is plenty, Usagi knows, wild stories of the underdark, of monsters and men and nightmares in the shape of both - he was still the young warrior who had vowed to fight evil wherever he detected it. It was strangely endearing to listen to fiery talks about honor from the point of view of one so young, so confident in his own abilities.

If Usagi is entirely honest with himself, he misses it.

He has been longing to return to dimension Third Earth for a long while and quite fervently. But now that he is here, in the conglomerate kitchen with its leaking pipes and its faded photographs and the vague odor of coffee in the air, Leonardo's hands are wrapped around nothing but his mug. They used to be able to talk about anything for hours on end, never tiring; now Leonardo's eyes are dark with fatigue and neither of them knows how to break the silence anymore.

Usagi can't name what he expected from his return. He only knows that even in his worst nightmares, it wasn't this.

He feels vaguely sick. Despite his hopes, the tea doesn't help.

 

> _There is a fresh scar on Leonardo's shell that nobody talks about.  
>  There is another one on his heart, but it looks older, and nobody talks about that either._

 

They are meditating in the dojo, and Usagi loses track of time.

It is inevitable, really. With nothing but the artificial light, dimmed to an absolute minimum, and the irregular passing of underground trains in the distance, the very concept of a linear progression of time becomes utterly meaningless. His mind holds many things that require sorting, and when the samurai finally opens his eyes the candles have burnt down and the air is chilly.

There is a wild moment when Usagi thinks he is alone with the darkness and the silence. His pulse is elevated, though, and his skin is tingling as if in anticipation of danger. When he spins around, he unexpectedly finds himself face to face with Leonardo. His friend emerges from the shadows like he is little more himself, and at the sight of Leonardo's utterly empty expression, something in Usagi drops through the brickwork and the concrete below and disappears.

He desires to reach for his friend's arms, for anything that will secure him in his knowledge that this young man before him is indeed real. The words - _I thought I had lost you_ \- die in his throat when he realizes that his worst fear has already come to pass. The knowledge that the friend he thought he knew is gone settles in his stomach like lead.

Leonardo gives him a very strange look before he turns around and heads for the door.

Try as he may, Usagi can't remember the rest of the evening at all.

 

> _He knows what he needs to do, but he can't figure out how._

 

They have shared a room during his visits for as long as Usagi remembers. There was never any debate about it, never as much as a questioning glance in his direction. From the moment they met, they have been as inseparable as their lives allow them to be.

Usagi has never had much in the way of best friends, even though Gennosuke frequently tries to convince him otherwise. But thinking about Leonardo always quickens his heartbeat along with his steps, and he can't seem to forget that brilliant smile in the face of a match however hard he tries. Surely that has to account for something.

And he always just assumed that Leonardo felt the same way. Despite them being ninja and samurai, Usagi has never met anyone who understands his concept of honor as well as this fellow student of the sword. So when they find themselves in the dimness of Leonardo's room, the futon mats spread out side by side, getting into bed next to each other is the most natural thing in the world.

Except.

Except they used to talk till sunrise whenever Usagi could find the time to visit. There used to be stories, accompanied with quiet laughter; and no matter how cruel the past weeks and months had been, between them they had always managed to make them lighter. But these days, the Lair is all careful silence and treading on tiptoes. For a reason that Usagi can't quite fathom, Leonardo has locked them all out; and in the process he has locked himself in. He is trapped in a box with no bottom and no ceiling, always, always trying to climb that much higher before he loses his grip and inevitably falls to his doom.

It is a weirdly disturbing image for all it seems excessively punitive. And it has to be wrong, Usagi thinks wildly, because surely there has to be a way in? A door, perhaps, if only he could find it- he has grown so familiar with those-

Leonardo seems awfully calm about it all, if he even realizes what he is doing, but everyone else remains on edge. Raphael appears determined to catch his brother, but not even he is strong enough to break through that barrier. Thinking about it, they all appear too tired lately, worn so thin that Usagi fathoms he will soon look at them and see nothing but a faded image of the people they used to be. The silence has a ring to it that is dangerous, like the silky pause before an explosion, the moment of crystallized calm before a weapon leaves its sheath. Nothing has happened, but only because Leonardo chose not to let anything happen just _yet_.

The realization that escalation is only a matter of time is a dreadful one, but once Usagi has come to the conclusion, his mind is made up.

 

> _Usagi's kimono is finally worn through at the knees. He resolves to buy a new one the next time he visits a city market. The connotations regarding his relationship with Leonardo are not lost on him, but he tries not to think about them too much._

 

Usagi is there when it happens. He makes sure of that.

He also makes sure that when Leonardo finally slips, it's him who takes the blow. That is trickier, but not impossible. Nobody dares to spar with Leonardo anymore except for Raphael, who takes hit after hit with a silent determination that would be admirable if it wasn't so heartbreakingly stupid. He never fights back anymore. Yet it doesn't get his brother any less wound up; if anything, it only serves to make him angrier.

Yes, Leonardo is tethering right on the edge now. His family seems to hold on to the secret hope that the eldest will work it out for himself somehow, that he will unravel the same way he wound up so tightly in the first place: slowly but steadily, if he is only given enough time. The samurai knows that it won't work that way from personal experience – it certainly never worked for him. Leonardo has been climbing too high and he is tired. One of these days he is bound to break under the strain.

And really, Usagi can tell that all it takes is an excuse now. A little thing. That will be enough. Anything can trigger the inevitable explosion, but when it finally comes to it, Usagi will make sure that it is him who takes the blow. A little thing. Something insignificant that is unavoidable with the whole family being so unfocused now. An excuse: Like Michelangelo knocking over the weapon rack during training…

The resulting noise makes them all flinch, the clatter of metal and wood excruchatingly loud. Before anyone else can react, Usagi grabs Leonardo's shoulder, and with a snarl the turtle spins around and punches him in the face.

Even though Usagi was ready for it, he didn't anticipate the force of the blow. For a moment the world is spinning, then he regains his footing, ducks out from under another swinging fist, and the fight is on. And this is no silent pummeling, he won't take that beating; he is not a punching bag, and while he is not trying to actively harm Leonardo, he isn't going to drop his defenses either. Only he must have done, because Leonardo is suddenly much faster than usual and much stronger too, and when Usagi wipes the sweat out of his eyes his fingers come away red.

Utterly dumbfounded, he stops for a second that turns out to be a second too long. Because even with the race of his heartbeat in his ears and the haze and the sudden, bone-deep exhaustion the _snap_ rings through the dojo like a thunderclap.

It takes a second for him to register that Leonardo just broke his arm. He is dimly aware that he is tilting, and then strong hands catch him and two bodies block his view at his best friend. He can still see Leonardo's face, though. It is as gray as ash, his mouth forming words that are lost in the sudden confusion. Strangely enough, all Usagi feels is a sort of drunken giddiness. That look right there, that is a breakthrough and no pun intended. He knows it is, because he can literally feel it in his bones…

And then he is half-carried, half-shoved out of the room, and there is a haze in which time moves in leaps and bounds and he misses a few hours in between, and later, much later, he is lying on a cheap straw mattress in a cheap inn, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wondering.

Now what?

There was an explosion, and he took the blow, but what comes now? Where does the story go from here?

 

> _Usagi buys a new kimono two days later. It is light blue, heavy travel attire, and three sizes too large._

 

He goes back one more time, and he does it to say goodbye.

He keeps his broken arm hidden beneath his kimono and pressed tightly to his body for Leonardo's sake as much as anyone's. No one wants a reminder of that day. It turns out that he needn't have bothered, because in the end he doesn't talk to Leonardo at all. The general air of the Lair is that of a funeral, or perhaps it has already turned into a tomb; when Donatello, who staves him off by the door, tells him in hushed tones that his oldest brother is preparing to go to Japan on a pilgrimage, Usagi isn't even surprised.

It still hurts, though, comparable to the sensation of something hard the size of a fist having been lodged between his ribs. This one doesn't lessen or dull. And no matter what he does, it just won't go away.

He spent many hours pondering over what to say, but now that he is here he has no words left. He thinks of the faded pictures and the leaking pipes and the spirit that made the harsh reality of this place soft and loveable. The truth is, he misses Leonardo, misses his best friend, and he has been doing so for way too long. All this time, nobody was even able to tell him where to start looking. And now a complete stranger on the other side of the ocean is supposed to manage what they all cannot?

That's not fair, he thinks. I saw him first. If Leonardo is to go to Japan, he should go with _me_.

But Usagi doesn't say a word. He just hands Donatello the bag he brought, and then he leaves as quickly as he can without running.

He weeps for a while, when he is back in his dimension. He can't tell exactly why. Only Leonardo is not smiling anymore when he fights, and that feels like a light went out and left everything in the dark. He used to think of their fight as a breakthrough; now it turns out it is nothing but a break. Afterwards, all he feels is a strange numbness that is spreading from his heart outwards and chokes off his sobs until he lies perfectly still.

His hakama are finally ripping at the knees, so he obtains some cloth scraps and stitches them up as well as he is able. And he thinks of new blue silk and how he has worn through another pair of sandals last winter, and how he used to carry a picture in the inner pockets of his kimono, right above his heart. Now the pocket is empty, because he put the picture into his new acquisition before he folded the silk over double and stuffed it into a bag and gave it _away_. It seems like such a terrible idea now that he can't help but weep a bit more.

Soon his best friend will be in Japan, the gods know for how long. And Usagi is in Japan as well, only it is not the same country at all and therefore a pretty useless place to be, all things considered.

He wonders how Leonardo feels about it.

 

> _Usagi would have followed his friend to the end of the world. He would have followed him straight into hell if he'd had to. Leonardo would have only had to ask. Maybe that is why he never did._

> _When Usagi visits for the last time, Leonardo locks himself in his room. He holds out for nine minutes and twenty-seven agonizing seconds before he all but bursts through the door and down the stairs, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He comes to a halt in the kitchen doorway, tense to the point of trembling and two minutes too late.  
>  Donatello hands him the small bag with a very strange expression on his face. Try as he might, Leonardo can't bring himself to meet his brother's eyes._

 

It feels like his life has ended, but the earth does not stop circling the sun over a single fate. Time goes on.

Slowly the delicate blossoms and pastels of spring bloom into the full, rich colors of summer. The days are getting longer and the air hotter. Usagi busies himself with the most minor tasks. Even the smallest errands for the Geishu clan are a welcome change in his every day routine. He takes up archery again, but it leaves his mind too much time to think while his hands perform the familiar tasks. Eventually he leaves again, travels further to the north. Staying in one place has never done anything for him, or at least that is what he tries to convince himself of. This is his life these days. He has been traveling for years now; nothing changed, everything is as it used to be.

So why does he suddenly feel like he is on the run?

No place can hold him for long, no matter how beautiful. The next time that he runs into Tomoe Ame, her presence makes his skin crawl, and he excuses himself as quickly as possible without being impolite. He can tell that she is offended regardless, but he also knows that she is worried about him. Somehow the latter feels much worse. So he leaves again, leaves the lands of the Geishu clan altogether and takes for the mountains, where an early autumn is already painting the sky silver and the leaves gold.

As he watches them change and whither and fall, he can't help but marvel at how time flies.

And if he feels a bit lonely – well, that is just the weather.

He is almost sure of it.

 

> _Japan has always been a distant dream for him, but now that he is here, Leonardo finds it rather too similar to New York State. The blue silk kimono that keeps him warm is much heavier than it has any right to be, and there is a photograph in the inner pocket that he never touches because he knows exactly what it shows.  
>  [He doesn't realize it yet, but this is Lesson One.]_

 

Autumn came far too soon and it carries on for far too long, Usagi thinks glumly. The mountain roads have turned into a maze of rockslides and muddy rivers. If there ever was a reason why he chose to come here, he can't remember it now.

It is raining almost constantly, and his too-thin clothes are soaked through to the bone. The nights are as chilling as the afternoons are stiflingly hot. Somehow he can never manage to dress quite right, and he wonders if autumn has always been like this. He used to love this season, used to see it as a balance between summer and winter. All the trees are aflame with a fire that not even the constant downpour can dim, and yet he finds himself freezing.

He knows why, of course, but that doesn't mean he likes to think about it.

For a while – and here time escapes him, leaves him in leaps and bounds; months and dates are meaningless in the mountains in any case, crowded out by mudslides and thunderstorms – but for a while he forces himself to stay. This is his world, this is the environment he grew up in; who is he to wish for another? He just needs time to settle, he thinks. Settle down, or settle back into himself, possibly. And so he pays the innkeeper for another week in advance and spends his days by the windows, watching in solitude as the leaves turn from golden to brown and are finally trod into the mud.

Sometimes he absently reaches for the inner pocked of his kimono only to scratch at his chest instead. There still seems to be something wrong with his ribs; the strange sensation of somethinghaving been wedged between them has faded somewhat, but it is still there. It is worrisome. Maybe Donatello can –

Ah, but that is the crucial point, isn't it? And there is no more use in denying it, either. He doesn't like New York City, yet at the same time he can't help but admire it. Most of all he admires the people who live there, amidst all the noise and the garish colors, who keep bustling from one place to the next and have no use for the past. He used to think that battle was the most exciting thing his life had to offer; then he learned about TV, and cars, and whole nights dedicated to playing board games with the family, and now he is hooked.

It was nice, having someone to turn to, even for such trivial matters.

Of course, there is no real reason why he shouldn't go back anymore. The whole of the Hamato Clan has never been anything but friendly and welcoming to him. He thinks of Michelangelo's playful antics, of Donatello's quiet knowledge, of Raphael's rough kindness, and then he very much doesn't think of the fierce loyalty that he has come to associate with Leonardo. Or about his smile. Usagi very much doesn't think about that either. So no, there is no real reason not to visit the Hamato clan, except that there is a Leonardo-shaped hole waiting for him on the other end of the portal that might just be enough to unravel him completely. He refuses to let that happen, if only for a little while longer. And so he stays in his spot by the window and tries to convince himself that despite all the evidence to the contrary, his own dimension is anything but incomplete or, gods beware, dull.

Outside, the rain pours on.

 

> _Leonardo likes to be left alone once in a while, but up here, in the bleak emptiness of the Japanese mountains, he finds that he really hates being lonely. He misses his family and friends, and while he knows he doesn't deserve their affection, he can't help the feeling that they miss him as well.  
>  [He starts to suspect that this is Lesson Two.]_

 

It is not time for winter yet, far from it, but the mountains don't care about the labels people try to attach to life. In the evening, the rain thunders against the window panes; the next morning is silent, snowflakes whispering against Usagi's skin when he leaves the inn. And that is the sign he has been waiting for. If there is any chance left for him to leave this village before spring, it has come now. The fresh snow covers the damage done by rockslides and the rain, but it hasn't frozen to a treacherous layer of ice yet. So he packs what little he owns and takes to the streets.

The untouched whiteness has a fragile beauty that is not lost on Usagi. It reminds him of a new canvas that is just waiting to be drawn on. For the first time in a long while, he wishes for the sketchbook Leonardo used to share with him. The memory of Michelangelo's colored pencils is a particularly fond one, even more so because the closer to the roots of the mountains he gets, the more petals and leaves reappear on the trees around him. The air is humid but warmer down here as well, and Usagi decides to exchange the muddy pits of the main road for the somewhat dryer and less treacherous forest.

Between the trees, the undergrowth is still thick and bustling with life. The air smells of pines and carries the heavy fragrance of late roses, and the samurai spends almost an hour watching in mesmerized silence as two little birds fight over the dark red berries of a rowan tree.

People say that home is where the heart is, and although Usagi has never been quite sure who these 'people' are supposed to be, he can't deny the statement some verity. As he sits perched on the trunk of a long-dead tree, he can definitely feel that it is true. Against all odds he feels himself breathe easier. This is his life. This is his world. No matter what he wishes for, in the end it is still what he is stuck with.

He might as well make the best of it.

If only it weren't quite so easy to get his hands on a piece of chalk, he thinks he could even be successful.

 

> _There is something beautiful about the bleak solitude of these mountains, even if he has to share it with a farting old man. There are the ghosts, of course – faces and voices that he prefers not to examine too closely –, but all things considered, it is far more than he deserves. Sometimes he doesn't find firewood. Sometimes he doesn't even find shelter for the night. But that, too, he has to accept. No matter how hard he wishes for it, a solution for his situation will hardly appear out of thin air.  
>  [And that sounds an awful lot like Lesson Three.]_

 

No matter how often Usagi takes a life, it never gets any easier.

It must be karma, he thinks as he cleans his katana on the last bandit's kimono. It must be his purpose in this world to kill the wicked, or at least those who present themselves to him as such. How else can he explain that he spent over a month with his arm in a sling, aimlessly wandering the mountain roads, and nobody bothered him – and yet as soon as his body has recovered and he is back in the country, a bunch of bandits deem him an easy target?

There are a lot of things he could say. _Fools_ comes to mind, or _You should have run while you still had the opportunity_ , but by then his blade has long since taken the last head and it won't do to speak ill of the dead, no matter their profession.

Their clothes and demeanor speak of thugs and thieves, but their daisho identify them as samurai. Ronin, perhaps, but then so is Usagi himself; he can't help but wonder how unkindly life must have treated them to let them find their end here, by his hands. Because when it all comes down to it, they are just like him. It is a dangerous thing to think, but that does not make it any less true: they are like him, like he could have become and might become still: betrayed and left behind, and ultimately, lost.

Forgotten.

The Hamato clan is not the first family that fate offered to him only to cruelly take it away. He refuses to think of it now, for the rows and rows of faces make him feel nauseous and ill. Mariko. Katsuichi. Mifune… Gone, dead, slain before his eyes, and it only gets worse from there, as if every year of his life is synonymous for just that much more suffering, that much more pain for him to bear. And it was supposed to be _different_ this time. No matter how far he went, the Hamato clan was always just a chalk drawing away; none of them were likely to marry and move on any time soon; they were out of reach for Usagi's enemies and more than capable of looking after themselves. They were supposed to be safe and a safe haven for him to turn to alike. And he had never met a family as close as them before, as devoted to one another as they used to be. They weren't supposed to just fall apart. What is there left for him to believe in if he can't even believe in them?

He sheathes his katana and leaves the scene to the dust and the ravens.

 

> _Too many words, the Ancient One says. Explain simply._  
>  _Leonardo doesn't think he can, but he makes the effort. I have been my own worst enemy, he finally says. It leaves as much unspoken as it expresses, really, but then maybe that is rather the point. To forgive himself, he has to talk to himself; but for his family, his sensei, for Usagi to forgive him the same crime that he has committed against himself, he needs to talk to them. His training here has only just begun, and for all that he is excited, he suddenly longs to be home._  
>  _[And that is Lesson Four.]_

 

Usagi decides to spend the precious last weeks of autumn the best he can and sets south. He passes a few settlements where he is pointed towards the great harvest festivals of the southern plains, and since that is as good as anything, he cuts through the forests and hillsides to get there before winter.

There are indeed festivals, and they are cramped and loud and stifling, just like they used to be. Usagi eats too much and drinks not nearly enough. All goes considerably well until, with the first snow of the plains, he finds himself entering his home village.

He knows it is a mistake before the first houses even come into view, and yet he can't help himself. With all else lost, he is inexplicably drawn to this place again and again, expecting each and every time for it to hurt less even though the pain never left him in the first place. It is the thorn in his side that he can't get rid of, an unhealthy addiction to see everything he longs for and can never have all in one place. Prodding a bruise, he thinks as he leans against the fence of the local school's training area and surveys the empty streets. Even the smell is familiar. He can see his old home from here, long ago taken over by another family, other lives that no longer have any connection to his. There are lights behind the windows, pinpricks of yellow candle flames and small fires. They only serve to aggravate the monochrome effects of the moonlit night, and Usagi suddenly and quite fiercely longs for a splash of color on the walls, longs for blues and honeys and chrome railings –

He wonders if this is what it's like to become insane. He feels dangerously unstable, or maybe it's the floor that dropped out from underneath him. Things are a bit wobbly, like the horizon tilted a few degrees to the left, to where a piece of white chalk rests safely in the inner pocket of his kimono, right above his heart…

The fury, when it comes, is like a tide that lifts him up and puts the fire back in his blood. Why not? he thinks, no, he screams it at the hillsides, dares the angled horizon to object, why the hell not? What is keeping me? Not this country. Not the plains nor the looming mountains, and certainly not the neat little rows of block huts that throw ink black shadows on the snow. Not anymore. All that kept him was the emptiness in his chest and the fear in his head.

He draws the symbols from memory; he has long ago stopped using a reference. His chant, low and fast and not shaking one bit, sounds down the first row of houses, and the inhabitants close their windows against the blue glow and the chill that it brings. One or two dare to look out into the monochrome night, but by then Usagi is long gone.

 

> _It has to be winter by now, Leonardo thinks to himself. It has to be, and yet no matter how many days and weeks and months pass, the valley never changes accordingly. There are still cherry trees blooming in the shades of the great mountains, and the water of the stream is still rushing past, cool to the touch but never freezing. Whatever the case, he keeps himself busy with things he never knew he needed or could do; he meditates for days, he takes up gardening and cooking, he sharpens his katana until they gleam. In your own time, the Ancient One tells him, and Leonardo thinks that he might actually get an idea of what that means.  
>  [He will learn the next lessons in his own time, then.]_

 

New York City is a shock.

It always is, even during spring, when the air is fresh and not too many people are out at night for fear of rain. Now, in winter, everything is a mess of colors and lights. The neon flares too brightly and the snow is brown slush and there are people everywhere, it's almost too much for Usagi, a sensory overload of the worst kind after the moonlit planes of his world. He could have portaled into the Lair. He could have done that. Used to do it, too. But things are a bit different now, and he has to make sure about this. It won't do to be skewered by Raphael's sai just because he decides to drop in on their dinner.

He finds the next manhole cover, and when he is reasonably sure that nobody is nearby, he slips down to the metal rings below and pulls the cover closed behind him. He stands in the dark of the sewers for a few minutes, listens to the silence and tries to get used to the smell again. Nobody follows him in. He isn't sure what he would have done if anyone had.

Somewhere in the distance, a train roars past and rattles the pipes on the ceiling. It feels like his very essence is rising up through the concrete and the bricks to meet him, and he stays for another minute and just breathes in the stench of waste water and chlorine and the sharp, cold tang that winter has everywhere, even in New York City. Then he adjusts his kimono, straightens his spine, and _goes home_.

He doesn't knock. That would be silly, and anyway he knows they wouldn't hear it in there. They must have seen him coming though. He is sure he has passed at least three security cameras on his way here, and for every one he spots he knows that there are two more that he doesn't. So he doesn't knock, he just punches the code into the wall panel and the doors slide out and up like he knows them to and it is still the right code, and somehow that is the best thing that has happened to him all year, still knowing the code to this door. He walks in, and he knows that they have seen him coming from a mile away because they are all there, even though it is two in the morning, even though Raphael looks like he is half asleep and Donatello has oil stains on his hands. They all look a bit skinnier, a bit older perhaps, but Michelangelo grins at him and Splinter bows and so Usagi does, too, and all in all things are just like they used to be.

There is a Leonardo-shaped hole behind Raphael's right shoulder, but Usagi has stopped looking at holes last autumn and is only looking at wholes this winter.

The walls are honeys and blues and chrome railings, but there are some pictures on the walls that he doesn't recognize. When Splinter offers him tea, Usagi can't help but notice that the pipe in the kitchen has been patched up with a shiny bit of tin. The photos on the fridge have been taken down, and there is a Leonardo-shaped hole in a chair by the table that nobody sits in. The calendar tells Usagi that it has been ten months since he last drank from this mug, but it is still striped and it still has a chip on the rim right where his lips touch the pottery. Usagi holds on to that chip. It is his proof that the image of this place that he remembers still exists.

It is three in the morning and everyone just sits here, sips tea and remains silent. They used to go on patrol every other night or so, Usagi remembers. Maybe they went yesterday. Raphael looks like he is sleepwalking. Maybe they went yesterday, but Usagi doesn't think they did. Donatello's workshop is ablaze with machines that shine like the prized possessions of a man with too much time on his hands, and Michelangelo's room is an artfully designed booby-trap. Usagi asks him if crime is hibernating during winter and Michelangelo looks at his feet and says that they don't go on patrol anymore, being one man short and such. That is confusing. It's not how things used to be, except maybe they used to be like this for months now. Because all of this feels new, but it looks old, like it already had plenty of time to settle.

They are no longer one man short, Usagi remarks casually. Raphael's head snaps up when he looks at him, _really_ looks, for the first time today, and there is a soft chuckle from Michelangelo. Donatello stares at the shiny new tin patch on the water pipe with an absent expression on his face while he considers things. It's cold outside, and there are people everywhere, doing the Christmas shopping. Usagi forgot about Christmas; it is not a custom that comes easily to him. Anyway, this can be his present for them. You are supposed to do things together on Christmas, right? They can stop being sad together.

In the distance, a train rumbles past.

 

> _Leonardo empties his pockets on the kitchen table and goes to wash his clothes in the stream. When he comes back, damp and heavy and content, he finds the Ancient One preparing tea at said table. Nothing is disturbed, but the man still has the audacity to wink at him. Nice boy, he says; it sounds like he means something else. Leonardo isn't sure he understands. It is just a photo of him and Usagi, smiling at the camera. It's just two friends, being content with the other's presence. Happy, even. Nice boy. There was a reason why he never looked at the picture, even if he isn't sure what it was.  
>  [This doesn't feel like a lesson at all. It feels like a pang, and it tastes like regret, but he isn't sure what he can learn from that.]_

 

Despite the bustle in the streets below, the rooftops are still dusted with snow. Their breath turns into misty clouds that are whipped away by the cold November wind. It is strange to be here, for Usagi as much as for the others; from time to time, they glance at him when they think he can't see, like they don't quite believe he is back yet. But there are four pairs of feet that leave their footprints in the snow, four pairs of hands that reach for fire escapes and push off brick walls. It feels real enough. For the moment Usagi is willed to keep it at that.

They start out in a sort of rectangle. Nobody wants to take the front, because there is a Leonardo-shaped hole waiting there that none of them quite know how to fill. But as time passes, their constellation changes until ultimately, the city flies past in a blur of white and red lights as they race one another to the edge of the last apartment building on the riverfront. Only there they stop, panting and staring at the mirroring surface below with wide eyes. Usagi feels like laughing, he is so full of energy and a kind of manic exhilaration; but when he finally turns to the right, where Michelangelo's toes just graze empty space, the turtle's face is wet with tears.

The bottom drops out of the world again as the air grows heavy with unsaid words. Really, what is there left for him to say? The truth is that he was scared, simple as that: scared they might blame him for what happened. He never thought that it would tear them all apart. If only he had looked a little closer, listened a little more tentatively, he might have been able to prevent what happened. Then again, probably not. Things are very clear now, but they weren't ten months ago. They were all fuzzy then, confused and upside-down. He made the right choice. He has to keep believing that.

There is a Leonardo-shaped hole on the outer edge of the rooftop. Usagi never imagined that there might have been one in his own shape as well, just waiting for him to come back and fill it.

He hums a bit, under his breath. The sound gets lost in the bustle of people in the streets below. So many lives with no use for the past. Maybe something happened yesterday. Maybe it didn't. All that is important is where they ended up today.

They stand like this for what feels like a long time, staring at the water in silence. In the distance, far across the rooftops, the skyscrapers of Manhattan paint their silhouettes against the reddish sky, but the water below is just like every other stream: fast, and cold, and indifferent to what happens on its banks.

Donatello's teeth start to chatter. Without another word, they go home.

 

> _There is a log above the waterfall that Leo likes to sit on. Sometimes he meditates, but most of the time he just stares at the water and lets his mind wander, which is not the same thing at all._  
>  _[At some point, he stopped dividing life into lessons. It is hard enough to simply live it as it is.]_

 

When they get back, Usagi has been awake for a little over 36 hours and his eyelids keep drooping. He camps out on the sofa in the living room, not daring to ask for anything else. There is a draught, but over the years he learned to sleep through snow storms, and so he wraps himself into all the blankets he can find like a cocoon and bunkers down on the worn furniture. He is asleep before his head hits the pillow, and for the first time in months, he doesn't dream.

He wakes to the smell of breakfast and the sight of Michelangelo's beak, inches from his face, staring at him in rapt curiosity. Usagi very nearly gets a heart attack – his sixth sense is so developed that nobody has been able to properly sneak up on him in years – and he flinches back, gets tangled in his blankets and narrowly avoids splitting his skull on the coffee table when he slips off the couch. Michelangelo nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to make room, and he spends the rest of the morning alternating between desperate apologies and strange sideways glances when he thinks Usagi isn't looking, or at least too closely. It's fine, Usagi reassures him. It's more than fine, actually. He hasn't felt this safe in – well, in about a year now, come to think of it. And he knows that expression, that strange fascination, from another green face that used to greet him every morning when he woke.

(Like he unsettled the natural order of things simply by closing his eyes. Although, watching in turn how Leonardo relaxes in his sleep, Usagi could never fully deny the idea some credibility.)

He can't help but feel that there is a difference between the two brothers somehow, but that is a thought streak deeply buried within the darker recesses of his mind, and in any case there is undoubtedly a Leonardo-shaped hole waiting at the end of it. So he tries not to dwell on it too much. Between washing and breakfast and bickering over the TV remote, he almost succeeds.

It is almost noon when Splinter decides that it is time for some training. Usagi watches from the doorway as the three brothers take up positions in a loose triangle. He feels a strange apprehension to pass the threshold, but he can't put a finger on why that would be. When he notices Splinter's eyes on him, he quickly steps in and slides the paper doors closed behind him.

He can tell from the way they grip their weapons and set their feet that they haven't trained properly in weeks. They are supposed to spar all-out, fighting to the last man, but Usagi only needs a minute to unbalance Donatello enough for the turtle to stumble into his younger brother, sending them both tumbling into the wall. With a smirk, Usagi turns to face Raphael. The oldest of the three looks tense, worn somehow. Yesterday evening he tried to take the lead in their rooftop run, and this morning he made breakfast. He is trying to live up to the image of his older brother that is made all that much greater by Leonardo's absence. But he is so hard-set on not failing that in the process he has forgotten to make sure he actually wins.

Usagi shifts his grip on his katana.

Behind him, Michelangelo knocks over the weapon rack on the wall. There is a sudden, breathless silence in which the tinkle of metal on the ground is much louder than it has any right to be. Raphael's eyes widen and his attention shifts to the chaos for just a split second. It is enough. By the time he turns back to the fight, he has a blade at his throat, and he drops his sai at once, raising his hands in surrender.

The expression on his face is as close to admiration as Usagi has ever seen it to be. Admiration, because they all flashed back and he did not, because they are still staring at the holes. They don't know what it took for him to get to this point. Usagi can't help but feel that he doesn't deserve being looked at like that, like he is worthy to be looked up to. He quickly sheathes his blade and bows out of practice.

He is almost sure that nobody saw his fingers shake, but he still sits on his hands for the rest of the training session.

Just to be safe.

 

> _Calligraphy has always done wonders for Leonardo's state of mind; with the Ancient One's quality supplies, the ink seems to bleed into the paper and breathe life into every line. It is also a reliable instrument to get in touch with his subconscious in ways that meditation never could. This time, the intricate lines seem to tangle like a living thing, sprouting leaves as they grow, and when he is done, a willow branch covers the whole canvas, as delicate as a spider's web. It makes his stomach lurch, even if he doesn't know why.  
>  [Ah, the Yagi No Eda. An interesting motif, the Ancient One says. Leonardo doesn't reply, but he puts the picture up in his room and looks at it often.]_

 

Every day for itself seems to pass in slow motion, but suddenly it's been over a month since Usagi fell asleep on the sofa and everyone has settled into a daily routine. Breakfast, training, and whatever strikes Michelangelo's fancy that day dictate their time together. Usagi can only observe in quiet fascination how everyone seems to follow the lead of the youngest. Michelangelo seems to be an endless source of new pastimes, be it a video game marathon or his colored pencils; and if they have nothing on, Raphael drags Donatello off to his bike while Usagi flips through the less scientific books in their personal library.

Usagi moves into Leo's room in week two. Nobody loses a word about it.

But one day they hit the surface and the snow has melted down into icy puddles on the sidewalks, and he knows that it is time for him to go back. He longs to see the cherry blossoms of the Geishu province once again, and while he hasn't felt this whole in a long time, he can't deny the homesickness that befalls him every time he sees Central Park.

He bids them farewell and vows to return as soon as his duties allow him. The chalk coats his fingers with a familiarity that is hard to ignore, and the blue and green lights of the portal cast strange shadows on the faces of his friends when he turns around for one last time and waves at them in parting.

When he arrives in his own dimension, it is raining and the streets are one big mudslide. Usagi jumps into every single puddle that he can find on his way to the next inn, and he can't stop grinning. The other guests keep away from him, but there are still traces of chalk on his fingers and he can't bring himself to care about anything else.

 

> _It is a stormy day, but Leonardo finally feels at peace. That is, until his sensei interrupts their meditation with four short words: Kumquat. You must go. Leonardo doesn't understand at first – he is happy here, and there is so much left for him to learn – but when he hears that his family is in danger it does not take him twenty minutes to collect his belongings and be on his way back home. The journey will be as long as it is perilous, but that is not why he dreads it; above all, he fears to come home the prodigal son to empty chairs at empty tables.  
>  [When he finally arrives, things are even worse than he imagined, but the happiness outweighs the sorrow. He finds that it usually does, in the end.]_

 

And then it is spring.

Usagi pays a visit to the court of Lord Noryuki and spends the afternoon with Tomoe Ame. She immediately peppers him with questions about his disappearance, but he simply says that he spent the cold season with Leonardo's family and leaves it at that. When she asks him about their dimension, he just shrugs. What can he possibly say? How can he even begin to describe the wonders that the future holds? Electricity that bends to the will of men and carts that move without horses; a device that answers any questions you type into it and another that allows you to talk to people on the other end of the city. Electricity, he thinks. Typing, he thinks. He settles for telling her that much is different there, but when he sits at the pond in her company it reminds him that some things remain the same wherever you go.

He forgot how long it takes to travel the country by foot and on horseback. But the beauty of Japan in spring is hard to ignore, even when the body aches and the cold creeps into every bone.

It takes him a while to get back into his old rhythm, and he spends the first few nights wide awake and unable to fall asleep. The stars are magnificent, made bright by the chill, and the Milky Way seems to go on forever. He finally drifts off to vivid images of what is waiting on the other side.

In the end weeks pass before he reaches Edo. It was a long journey, but he had to promise to get souvenirs for the whole Hamato clan and also to get new clothes while he is at it, and the capital is the best place to acquire both to moderate prices. The way there leads him through forests and past half-glazed lakes. Shrines to the gods are placed at regular intervals, and he offers food and flowers at every single one. Whatever Donatello choses to believe, Usagi has seen the workings of gods and demons alike many times, and he will not lightly forfeit safe passage for the beliefs of another.

He has walked this route many times, and the closer he gets to the city the more he recognizes his surroundings. Even the air smells familiar: there is the stench of thousands of people living in close proximity mingled with the smokes of a thousand fires burning without rest, of industry and food and horses in enclosed spaces. It is getting warmer as well. By the time the first houses come into view, he can tell the distance from the feel of the cobbles under his feet.

He tells himself quite firmly to get what he needs and then leave while he waits in line at the gates. The guards eye his attire wearily but let him pass without preamble, and then he finds himself in the endless maze of alleys and street vendors that make up Edo up and down the hills as far as the eyes can see…

Truth be told, it doesn't take him five minutes to get lost.

Not lost in a directional sense; he always knows exactly where he is, knows the workings of the city by heart and her soul like his own. There are dark places here, but he keeps away from them and indulges in the simple joys of city life: cheap inns, cheap food and the general tension of a sizzling fuse. It is on a spiritual level that he strays. While he was with the Hamato clan, his life had never felt quiet; on some days, when people visited and everyone came down for breakfast in time, it could even get cramped in the confined spaces of their home. Only now does he realize how isolated their existence really is. This city is bustling with life, and he is but a small part of it. Nobody pays him any mind, and in return, he allows the never-ending onslaught of voices and thoughts and emotions to carry him away on its currents.

It goes well for a while, but of course he eventually ends up with his money being stolen. All his cursing doesn't prevent him from being hungry, and so he goes through all his pockets and his small bag in search of stray coins and spare change until his fingers scrape over something hard.

He knows what it is, of course. He just forgot.

Still he pulls the cellphone out of his bag and stares at it. It is such a small thing – flat and white and delicate, so unlike the bulkier devices that the turtles use for themselves. It is turned off, of course. There is no reception here. But the instant Usagi sees his reflection mirrored in the dark screen it seems to bend space itself around it. In the middle of a crowd, he has become an island, tied to a technology that doesn't belong here. The pulse of the city is still strong in his ears, demanding his attention, but the device seems to have a heartbeat of its own that makes his skin tingle.

It is useless here in the ancient and glorious city of Edo, apparent in body but lacking its spark. Usagi feels a sudden rush of sympathy for the blank screen. He notices for the first time how hot the air has become. The stretch of sky that is visible between the looming houses and clotheslines is blue enough to appear purple. Spring has almost passed. He didn't even realize how deeply he was dragged under.

In the inner pocket of his new kimono a piece of chalk rests just beneath where his mon is stitched into the silk. He pulls it out now, weighs it against the cellphone in his other hand. He is stranded. These are his way home.

Summer is coming. It is time to end his holiday.

 

> _The old drainage junction is littered with trash and almost completely made out of rusted metal. On the plus side it is huge, with dozens of rooms in different sizes and immediate access to water and electricity. Now that they are all back together, they can start to rebuild what they lost. Leonardo is confident that as a family, it won't take them long to turn this place into a new home.  
>  His brothers keep staring at the far door. When he asks them about their preferred distribution of the upper rooms the responses are less than enthusiastic and nobody quite meets his eyes._

 

Usagi doesn't know what makes him reach for his katana before he steps out through the portal, but in his years on the road he has learned to trust his instincts. So he draws his weapon, and takes a deep breath, and then he steps through the swirling blue-green mist and into the Hamato Lair.

It is very dark, but he knows his way around. The TV area is just to his left.

His feet hit something solid that is not the sofa, and when he stumbles, his free hand scrapes over bent metal and crumbling stone. He uses his momentum to roll forwards and absorb the impact, then crouches down low on the ground and tries to figure out what is going on. This debris here feels like a part of the ceiling. He reaches out with tentative fingers to where Splinter's armchair should be and finds nothing but rubble and moldy cotton stuffing.

It's all destroyed. The dust has already settled on the wreckage; he comes weeks too late, perhaps even months, and there is nothing left for him but ruins.

He closes his eyes and tries to pull himself together with little success. This can't be true. He doesn't know what happened, but the absolute destruction around him makes him dismiss the idea of natural causes; this place was as earthquake-proof as it could get. No, this was a planned attack. Someone did this. And he wasn't there to stop them.

He grits his teeth and gets back to his feet. Memory supplies that the door is straight ahead of him, but his movements are hindered by the darkness and parts of the walls and ceiling that block his path. He can't help but worry - surely someone noticed? Did the humans hear the explosion? Has the media finally gotten a hold of this place? Usagi ponders whether there was a TV report. But perhaps not; after all, the Lair is rather deep down and lay abandoned for a long time before the Hamato clan made it their home. It is thoroughly possible that no topsider has noticed anything yet.

He refuses to entertain the possibility that there might be corpses in this wreckage. He is aware that it is nonsense, pure sentiment, but still the death of his friends feels like something he would know. An ache where his heart is beating too fast against his ribs, perhaps, or a fresh emptiness in his chest. He has to believe that they are still alive. They have to be alive. Why else would he still be here?

The smallest sound alerts him to another presence just in time to dodge as a missile is fired at his head. He falls behind another slate of ceiling and covers his head when round after round of bullets spray him with splinters and debris. Stupid, stupid; he should have at least entertained the possibility that there is someone else still here – or some _thing_ , rather, he thinks when he sees the red glow in the air where the gallery used to be; something big and heavy that whirrs when it moves.

For a second he is glad that at least they can't see any more than he does, but then he remembers that this is the 21st century where people communicate and move and breathe with the help of machines; words like IR camera and X-Ray vision spring up in his mind and wave their red warning flags. He dashes to the right just in time to avoid getting his skull split by another range of bullets, and then he has no choice but to keep running; in the dark and with the stirred-up dust in the air, he is entirely dependent on his hearing to find the door, and he only realizes he is now out in the tunnels when he rushes straight into the drain. Water soaks his hakama and his socks. He tries to stop, slips on the slick stone and plunges headfirst into the wall.

He remains like this for a moment, pressed into the bricks, and tries to get his breathing under control. The Lair behind him is eerily silent now that the shooting has stopped and his steps no longer echo off the walls. Then he hears it: a whirring noise, the sound of stone being crushed by a huge weight. He doesn't wait to see if the thing will make it through the remains of the door. As quietly as possible he climbs out of the water and slips down the tunnel to the right. His fingertips find empty space, he turns a corner, and then he breaks into a jog.

He needs to contact the brothers and see if they are all right. He still has his cellphone, turned off to preserve the battery. With any luck he will have enough power left to make a phone call. But who to try? Surely the family's own devices are still in the rubble of the wreckage behind him; they may even be in the hands of the enemy. He could draw unwanted attention to himself. But there is little choice here, he realizes. He will just have to risk it.

 

> _He feels like something is missing from their new home. Strangely enough, even after they furniture the kitchen and find enough mattresses to each claim one as their own the feeling does not pass._

 

Leo is the only one who still has his shell-cell. He had it on him when he went to Japan, even though he seldom used it, and now that the old Lair is destroyed he remains the only one with means to contact their friends until Don is finished with the new ones. His genius brother only took two days to supply them with a minimum of light and electricity, and Leo keeps his phone fully charged at all times. He disabled the tracking functions, of course, but the old number is still working.

The screen is lighting up now. There is no tune, because sound carries to strange places in their new home, but Leo is a light sleeper and wakes up all the same. For a moment he stares numbly at the shell-shaped device on the mattress next to his head, then adrenaline kicks in and shakes him awake. It's hours after midnight. Neither April nor Casey should have reason to call them at this time of night.

He holds the cellphone close to his face and squints at the glare of the screen.

U., the caller I.D. reads.

The world screeches to a halt. Leo is sure that he can feel his heartbeat stutter before it starts up again at twice the speed. His throat is blocked. _U._ But that can't be. It's been so long. He almost forgot –

Bullshit, he scolds himself. You never did. How could you? How could you possibly forget _him_?

But he is getting his hopes up here. So many things could have happened instead. This could be a trick. Is it possible to take over someone's number like that? Donnie would know. But Donnie is asleep. Maybe this is a trap. Maybe the Foot have gotten hold of the white shell-cell. Leo refuses to think about how or when, but they could have. It's too dangerous, it's too risky. He can't answer that call.

Bullshit. How could you not?

He feels like a sleepwalker, like his body is not his own. Afloat, adrift; for the first time ever since he returned weeks ago he can't clearly see the path that's in front of him. His fingers don't shake when he flips the cell open, and that's strange. It's also very marvelous. And then Leo breathes his name into the receiver and waits.

The silence seems to stretch on forever before his name is repeated by another voice, darker and older and just as hushed and breathless as his own.

The tracker on his phone is disabled, and he made everyone swear that there would be no solo missions before things had a chance to settle somewhat, but now he can't bring himself to care. They don't need a tracker and they don't need to speak. Leo keeps his phone pressed close to his ear while he pads through ink-black sewer tunnels and crosses drain after drain. He can hear Usagi breathe. That's enough. It has always been enough for him.

In the artificial glare of their cellphone screens Usagi's fur stands out like a beacon of white in the darkness. Leo can hear his friend's last shuddering exhale before they both end the call and stare at each other in the dark. There are a few feet of distance between them and Leo vaguely thinks that they don't ought to be there so he crosses them and embraces his samurai as tightly as he dares. He can feel Usagi's arms encircle him and his friend's forehead on his shoulder and it feels like home.

Usagi breathes in, and the world rights itself.

 

> _There are still scars on Leonardo's heart that he can't talk about.  
>  There are others on Usagi's that remain unexplained but that fit his like a jigsaw puzzle._

 

As Usagi watches Leonardo move in the half-light of the training area, he can't help but marvel how time flies.

There isn't a dojo yet, not as such, but there are stories and stories of railings and galleries and the turtles have done what they could with planks and straw mats. In time, there will be. For now it's a platform maybe fifteen feet above the water, illuminated by humming light bulbs and padded with blankets, but Usagi can already see what it will become. And the year is still young. Very soon spring will turn into summer, and then the leaves of autumn will block the drains before winter covers every surface with a thin layer of frost. His kimono is fraying at the knees and he has worn his way through another pair of sandals last year, because nothing lasts forever. But as he sits here in this realm, this Third Earth, and watches the light gleam off Leonardo's swords, he can almost convince himself that he doesn't mind.

The others are trying to install a line of pipes to the newly designated kitchen area; Usagi can hear them argue high above. There are pictures pinned to the door of Michelangelo's room because it is the first one in their line of rooms. They are stained and rumpled despite being so new, mainly because everyone who passes the door pauses for a moment to press their fingertips to the smiling faces. Raphael's new punching bag is blocking the main gallery again; he doesn't yet have a place to put it up in. But that will come. Sometimes change is a good thing, and Usagi is glad that he gets to witness it from up close.

This time, though, there is something in the way Leonardo moves that steals his breath away. And that seems new, but it _feels_ old, like it already had plenty of time to settle.

Leonardo looks up then and their eyes meet. There is a grin on his face that is only matched by Usagi's own, and that is perfect. It is exactly as it ought to be.

Usagi loves it.


End file.
